


Four Times Ginsberg Nearly Lost His Virginity...

by lanskyed



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:25:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanskyed/pseuds/lanskyed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... and one time he did.</p>
<p>Ginsberg has had a long and awkward road towards losing his virginity, both with women and with men. Here are some of the instances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Ginsberg Nearly Lost His Virginity...

I.

"We can't… we shouldn't…" It takes a herculean effort to even say that, because she's pressed up against him and it's not like he's been staring all night or anything but she's got a really phenomenal body, and he'd have to be crazy not to notice. It's one of those things, he realizes, the more he thinks about not staring at her, the more he wants to stare. At least she'd been staring back. She's staring right now, in fact.

But this isn't an admiring stare. This is more of a _what the hell are you doing, Ginsberg_ stare, and he'd know, because he's seen some variation of that stare just about every day for the last two years. Who'd've thought that a girl who has nothing to do with the advertising world could conjure up a stare like that?

"I thought you wanted to," she says, and the way she's pouting and the way her skirt's all rucked up around her waist means there's nothing he can do but stare. Stare and try to play it cool.

"I _do_ want to." There probably haven't been truer words spoken, at least not in his lifetime. Those're the kind of words that could live in immortality. If only his ads came that easy to him.

"Then why shouldn't we?" She tosses those dark curls impatiently and does that thing with her hips that she knows drives him nuts. It'd drive just about anyone nuts. He's not unique. He's just like everyone else.

"Because…"

The front door opens.

If diving to the other end of the couch were an Olympic sport, Ginsberg's pretty sure he would have just won bronze. Maybe even silver. Probably not gold, but that's just because his date's diving to the opposite end even faster.

"Michael!" his father exclaims, joviality and mood-killing combined into one very tall package, "What, you weren't going to introduce me to your date?"

From the look on his date's face, Ginsberg doesn't even need to say _That's why_.

* * *

II.

She knew how to set the scene, that was for sure. Big candles on the table, the lights down real low, some quiet music on the record player. It was romantic. Funny, because romantic wasn't really his thing, but in a situation like this, he was kind of starting to think he could get used to it.

Of course, a situation like this meant being stretched out over her on the couch, fingers all tangled up in her long red hair, and not a whole lot else on his mind except the fact that tonight might be the night. _The_ night. It's not like it's been on his mind a lot lately, except that it absolutely has, and he's as ready as can be.

Okay, maybe not as ready. In fact, maybe he's still a little jumpy, because the second she reaches down to tug at his pants -- he'd almost kind of forgotten he was wearing pants -- he has some kind of weird, completely inexplicable twitch. Not just a twitch, a full body spasm, leg kicking out and nearly sending him tumbling off the couch in the process. He'd've called it a flinch, except that a flinch would imply he didn't want this, and that couldn't be farther from the truth.

She's amused, though, amused with one of those smiles that only a really gorgeous woman can get away with, where it looks like she's laughing at you and not with you and you don't care because she looks so good doing it. That amusement is enough to make him go in for another kiss, except… something isn't right.

He realizes, about ten seconds later, that what isn't right is the fact that the carpet's caught on fire. As much as he wishes that were some kind of catchy euphemism for great sex, all it really means is that he'd kicked the candles over and that shag carpeting is apparently extremely flammable.

As he jumps up to tamp the flames out with whatever's close at hand -- his shirt, he later finds out -- there's only one thought in his head: _She's probably not gonna wanna see me again_.

* * *

III.

This isn't something he normally does.

Okay, scratch that, it's not something he's ever done before, so of course it's not normal. He doesn't even know where he is right now, except that Stan had convinced him to come out here, and come to think of it, why does Stan know about this kind of place, anyway? Last time he checked, Stan was pretty comfortably interested in girls.

Then again, Ginsberg's pretty interested in girls, too, and while the fact that there's a 6'3" guy pressing him up against the bathroom door doesn't _contradict_ that notion, it certainly adds another dimension to it.

Unlike everyone else at this party, he's not stoned out of his mind, and that's okay. That stuff is fine for other people, but it's not fine for him. He likes to keep his wits about him. Such as it is. Right now, he doesn't have a whole lot else on his mind except the fact that this guy has his hand down his pants and it's not appalling. In fact, it's kind of great.

_Drip, drip, drip._

At first he dismisses the little droplets of water that're dripping onto his head as rain. Then he remembers he's inside. Apparently, not being stoned out of his mind doesn't mean that this isn't otherwise a mind-altering experience.

He breaks the kiss.

He looks up.

That's when the leaking pipe right above their heads decides to burst and dump a torrential downpour of rusty water all over them. Stumbling out of the bathroom, dripping wet and disoriented, Ginsberg thinks it's probably for the best that it hadn't gone any farther.

Not because it was with a guy. Because the venue wasn't exactly ideal. He has standards, after all.

* * *

IV.

There're loud noises, and then there're _really_ loud noises. Loud noises are kind of to be expected when you're on the bed with a girl and neither of you have many clothes on. He's not sure he's supposed to be the one making them, but either way, the both of them are causing enough of a ruckus that it doesn't really matter _who's_ making them, so long as they're both enjoying themselves.

It's her apartment. There aren't any interfering parents (she lives alone, he made sure to check that), there aren't any candles in the room (he cited an allergy to romantic gestures, it seemed to work, or at least, it made her laugh), and there aren't any leaky pipes (or seedy nightclubs that make him feel a little funny when he thinks about them too long.) Everything is the way it should be. Just the way he imagined it.

And she's a nice girl, too. The kind of girl that he could really see himself begin with, if he could see himself being with anyone. He's pretty sure he's an unattractive shade of vermillion. That's why the drapes are closed, right? And she can do some nice things with that mouth of hers. That doesn't hurt, as far as the loud noises go.

_Really_ loud noises are less expected. In fact, really loud noises are enough to startle anyone out of a blissful roll across the sheets, no matter how exciting it is. He's halfway through tearing open the condom wrapper when an unholy screech sounds from just outside the window. It sounds like someone being murdered out there, or at least, that's what he imagines murder sounds like. Maybe murder's quieter. The way she leaps away from the noise in horror would be funny if it weren't also extremely sudden and didn't involve flying limbs directed -- accidentally, of course -- at sensitive areas.

As he lies on the bed in agony, curled into the fetal position, hands between his legs, desperately fighting back tears, he curses the raccoons outside the window. He doesn't begrudge them their desire to mate -- how could he, considering what he was getting up to -- but they just had no sense of appropriate timing.

* * *

V.

He's starting to think he's cursed. This is just how it's going to be, the rest of his life. The guy that never loses his virginity. It's like one big cosmic joke, except that nobody's laughing.

That's why, even once he gets into bed with her, he's a little nervous. One bitten, twice shy, you could say, except that being bitten might have actually been preferable to having his dad catch him, or having the rug catch on fire, or having a pipe burst over his head, or having goddamned raccoons ruin the moment. And that had all been within the last six months. It's a curse, it has to be. He doesn't believe in that kind of thing, but he might make an exception, just for this.

Twenty four years he'd gone without really thinking about it. It would happen someday, he figured, and if it didn't, why push it? Then he'd started thinking about it, and it was like the damned floodgates had opened. He'd _never stopped_ thinking about it. He was thinking about it _right now_ , and it might be happening, assuming some disaster didn't befall him first.

"You're over-thinking it," she says, in that determined voice of hers. She's always determined, and he likes that, because he's not, at least, not about this. She knows what she's doing. She's good enough at this for the both of them. And she's right: he is over-thinking it, because he always does.

After a certain point, he stops worrying about candles or interruptions or nuclear war or whatever it is that's going to ruin the moment tonight. When she's on top of him and he's inside her, all of that has a funny way of floating to the back of his mind. Now he really sees what all the fuss was about. This sex thing isn't half bad.

So maybe there're a couple of bruises from the time he manages to slam his elbow right into the bedside table, and maybe he rolled on top of her hair one time too many, and maybe he didn't last all that long -- give him a break, it's his first time -- but as soon as he flops back into the pillows all boneless and happy, he's pretty sure he can handle anything. Bring on the disasters. Nothing can stop him now.


End file.
